


Wolf in the Breast

by ThereminVox



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 16:18:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: John Seed character study inspired by Liz Fraser’s ethereal voice.





	Wolf in the Breast

Any patron or colleague who frequented the Northside Tavern would refer to the pensive man, sitting solo at the otherwise vacant bar, as John Duncan. To feign further observation, the deceptively keen eye was liable to exploit him as a platform for their own brand of circadian morale-boosting. They were clever in such regards, John could give them that. Unfortunately, for them, he was far more incisive. As sharp as the Kiton K-50 model suit he adorned, custom tailored to best complement the paled turquoise of his own pair, half-lidded, reflexively flickering in tandem with the pulsing neon light decor accentuating bare and bedecked bottles alike.

 

_Under my shirt_

_Have to amass_

_Sling the tainted words_

_I’m each arms they fall on_

 

The bar was patently more languid relative to his standard nightclub variants. While he certainly did appreciate the simpler facets of living, he desired a hasty withdrawal from it all: affluent or insolvent, sanguine or somber, virtue or vice. He payed little mind as life passed him by, yet would eagerly offer a fortune to perpetuate his perversion. Always the disconcerting threat of turbulence throbbing incessantly at the ribbed cage, coveting a swift escape yet somehow still clinging…

 

_It’s my body_

_Puzzles the trick in me_

_I lend it out to borrow_

_It might survive_

 

Each line of meticulously arranged liquor appealed greatly to his omnipresent shadow of intemperance. John Duncan was a remarkable effigy of both avolition and animation. From head to toe, he embodied the immaculate physical grace of Adonis. As well, to the subjective spectator, his temperament may often express subtle tribute to Narcissus. Curiously, as it were, the man was an enigma even unto himself. A deeply repressed remnant (among numerous others), beckoned for a semblance of uniform identity, accompanied exclusively by the sole grand objective that could issue warranted doctrine along the quest for that one elusive gem called “meaning”. However, the domineering rational side of his conscience contended as staunch in eschewing.

 

_I’ve pretended I knew the way_

_Especially when_

_I’ll revenge_

_All I’ll need’s that day_

 

Naturally, he could acknowledge the pleasing symmetry of his features even in the murky, fractured seams of flourescent tinted mirrors. It was routine for him to arrive as an early bird to the night shift. The venue was more or less stagnant during twilight hours as its primary advertising encouraged daylight propriety. Before he was able to crawl, his sense of impregnable wonder had been utterly robbed, leaving his breast as raw as the welts embellishing the soft yet firm topography of his upper back, healed yet still tender to a lingering glance or touch. Just a mere brush along the cross hatched length of abrasions was enough to deceive him into the nostalgic realm of memories, obscene.

 

_I’ll feel perpetual_

_I feel perpetual_

_I feel perpetual_

_True blue and real_

 

Oh, but how unspeakable beauty burgeoned through pain, manifested only within John Duncan’s designated hands. _Impose and uphold the law_ ; God-given or man-made, behested righteously in the Duncan name. He supposed he was always ordained to be bred a chieftain. Never could he be menaced by looming gaze of abandonment if his heart persisted ever untenanted and his mind projected sovereignty, betraying private exhibition of caustic passivity. Perhaps it was the ever oppressive voice of his acedia whispering trickles of seduction. To be brazen in his shameless perusal of the Devil’s nectar.

 

_I feel_

_I feel_

_True blue and real_

_Laughing on my bed_

 

He inhales each tendril of cigar smoke diligently, as if the nicotine has merged seamlessly with air and the lungs yearn desperate for one final breath to sustain its inflexible greed. The familiar pull and drag is a taste he has yet to tire, possessing his throat with a delicious bite heralding just one of many insatiable iniquities. Although most were too egocentric to explore beyond the baser elements, John illustrated a complexity of which was expertly concealed. Duplicity comprised his bastard blood. Manipulation, the muscle and resulting echo of pride and purpose emanating sleight of jurisdiction.

 

When finally satisfied with unsavory consumption, he indulges his exhausted practice of exhalation and finds himself divided, not by a bar countertop on the outskirts of Atlanta but by an unlit fireplace in the vivid isolation of his ranch in Hope County, Montana. In reality, neither John Duncan nor John Seed were particularly imposing. A vague murmur of melody caresses his untrained ear, solitary token of remembrance to the visual recollection of his insufferably intimate past. Faint sounds of layered, seraphic guitar chords, harmonized by wistful lilt of a woman’s indecipherable tongue, reverberated as gentle vibrations throughout the dim expanse of interior, illuminated subtly by a patch of diminutive, gleaming stars from the skylight.

 

The fleeting high of cannabis wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as the numbing buzz from a heavy whisk of whisky. Even so, the “oregano” was growing stale from its neglected residence atop the coffee table and he couldn’t help but notice that as the days progressed, candidates for his brother’s project quickly regressed.

 

_I’ve pretended I knew the way_

_Especially when_

_I’ll revenge_

_All I’ll need’s that day_

 

 _Meaning_.

It was all John ever sought in his 32 years of aimless wandering and rumination. The grand objective fueling these scattered fragments of his abiding gluttony. He would seek symbolism in every chaste kiss of needles, as well from lips laced with cocaine or whatever choice drug was thrust effortlessly at his disposal. He would cling vehemently to his sloth scarification, hopeless in his selfish attempts to hoard any and all faces of the past. For it was the past that could never think to abandon him. Even whilst surrendering to the grasp of amnesia, his past self would still adhere to the weak cries muffled in the back of his mind.

 

He could acknowledge the immaterial beauty in that seedy restroom, compelling prey to his presence like a snake, charmed. But, he was more than a mere generous presentation of God’s arrogant yet humble artistry. How much longer was he to defile this title of Baptist, lounging desultory, in spite, waiting for security granted only to whoever is deemed “worthy” by his elder sibling’s hand.

 

John Duncan was unworthy. John Seed, even more so. Both were nonetheless scrutinizing. Consequently, he believed his Sloth to be wholly justified by this tiresome revelation. No matter how defeated Joseph may convey: a silent prayer of one-sided pity, blaspheming his name. No matter how much he tried in vain to suppress his urges and appease a lone, absent Voice begging earnest for acceptance, John, alone, was determined to find meaning and carve his own path to salvation.

 

_I’ll feel perpetual_

_I feel perpetual_

_I’ll feel perpetual_

_True and real_

 

If it meant laying waste by means of endless brooding, he would spend his final days expending the will to _try_. Just as others were pawns to manipulate at his leisure, this evanescent silhouette of a blue-eyed, brunette boy betrayed as little more than a pawn to his family.

 

 

 

Once upon a time, John Duncan’s gaze evinced listless to throngs of vapid chatter and empty promises. Now, he must remind himself to blink and detach from this intense, fixed glare. Until there was none left to give, John Seed would remain idle, reserving material earnings for the inevitable reaper’s fare.


End file.
